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Subject: {ASSM} Blind Date {inc rom}
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Date: Wed,  7 Jul 2004 07:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "blind_date.txt" begin>

This is copyrighted.  This is so copyrighted.  International copyrighted.
Galactic copyrighted.  Frigging universe eye of god copyrighted, signed at
the bottom copyrighted.  This is so copyrighted you can only read it once
and you have to squinch your eyes up so it's blurry.  Even if you read it
(once) you are forbidden to reproduce.  This means you.  I mean it. 
Copycopycopyrighted.  I mean it.  -TM



   "Should you sin, sin boldly.  Don't confound the matter with timidity."

   -Roger Elliott McFarland, "Under a Fair Sun," 1932, Blackwell and
Simons, London

   Blind Date By Tilpondarius Dedonde Manaday That's muh-NA-dy if you
please

   "You need to get laid.  He's handsome, he's got muscles, he's sweet and
funny.  Best of all, he's got this monster between his legs.  I had cramps
for two days after the first time.  But god, it was worth it."

   "What about Henry?"

   Betsy grinned knowingly.  "Henry, well-" She gave Sandra an odd smile.
"Listen, Mark is a whole 'nother experience.  He's discreet, too."

   "Betsy, you're so bad." Sandra smiled patiently and turned back to the
financial reports.  They were casual friends; she had lunch with Betsy but
they didn't do things away from work.  Betsy was younger; in her twenties;
Sandra knew the cute brunette was randy.  But she wasn't going to let Betsy
set her up with some guy.

   It had been over a year since Charlie died.  She really did need to get
out and meet guys.  And a big cock- Betsy wouldn't know of course, but that
hit her hot button.  Charlie had had a big cock, and he could fuck her to a
frenzied exhaustion.  She turned back to Betsy.  " I'm not sure I'm ready.
I think I'm going to call my Mark and see if he can spend some time at
home."

   "Mark, your son, right." Betsy made a face.  "Look, you're cute as hell.
You have a great figure.  And you're letting it go to waste.  Charlie
wouldn't have wanted you to sit at home alone night after night.  Or
playing mother hen to a teenage son.  You're too young and way too pretty."

   "I'm not mothering him.  Mark is nineteen, and he moved out last year.
He's very mature and successful.  He makes more than me."

   Betsy rolled her eyes.  "You can use your kid for an excuse if you want.
Listen, I've already set it up.  Here's the address for the bar.  Meet him
at seven Friday.  I told him blonde, big boobs, face of an angel, and a red
blouse.  You have a red blouse?  If you don't, I can loan you one."

   "No, Betsy.  You be naughty on your own time."

   "Think about it."

   "No."

   "Don't say no, just think about it."

   Okay," Sandra laughed.  "I'll think about it."

   She did think about it, but she wasn't going.  Betsy kept glancing at
her with an odd smile throughout the afternoon, but she ignored her, or at
least tried to.

   Friday afternoon, Betsy reminded her.  "And if you're not interested in
my Mark, maybe you'd like to spend some time with me and Henry." Saying
that Betsy's eyes went to Sandra's breasts, her eyes dropping like a man's
would.  Odd.

   "Thanks, Betsy.  I'm going over to my son's." ***

   Thursday night, after several glasses of wine, she had waxed her pelvis.
Charlie had liked her vulva clean; it was the first time she'd done that
since he'd died.  She still wasn't going out with Betsy's blind date.  She
was determined not to.  But she did have a pretty cunt.  Anyway, Charlie
said so.  She missed that big thing of his, banging into her womb.  She
missed everything about him.

   Before she could fall into a gloom, sh went to the exercize equipment in
the bedroom.  She worked out naked in her bedroom for an hour, frustrated,
angry, missing Charlie.  It wasn't as good as sex, but for no clear reason,
when she went to bed, she slept better than she had in ages.

   Friday afternoon, Betsy rubbed her shoulders briefly and kissed the
corner of her jaw.  Sandra was surprised; she wasn't that close to Betsy.
"If you don't want the meet our Mark, Henry and I would still love to have
you.  Over."

   "Thanks, Betsy.  I'm calling my son as soon as I get home." ***

   Sandra did call Mark as soon as she got home.  He begged off; he was
busy.  "I'm sorry, Mom.  Maybe tomorrow, okay?"

   "Mark, you work too much.  You should take some time off."

   Mark laughed.  "It's a date, Mom.  First time I could get free in weeks.
I've got a date with a beautiful woman.  I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

   Her son had a date.  San looked at the phone sadly.  She didn't want to
be home alone while her son got on with his life.  Charlie wouldn't have
wanted her moping about.

   Maybe Betsy was right; it was time to get back into things.  For a
moment, she felt panicked.  Could she find the nerve to get out among
people?

   She had a red blouse; she wore that, a skirt that came above the knee,
and flats.  Charlie used to tease her that about her heels; "That's what
caught my eye about you.  Women in heels always give head." He'd been right
about Sandra, anyway.  She'd spent so much time with his big thing down her
throat, massive and hot, almost choking her.  She'd loved doing that
though, feeling at once powerful, and grateful: powerful because it stirred
him so; grateful for all the pleasure he gave her, for the exotic sexual
adventures he led her on.

   She considered calling Bill, a friend of Charlie's and hers, but Bill
had been closer to Charlie, and the last time she'd seen him it had been a
little awkward.

   That left Betsy's young stud, the blind date thing.  She did have a red
blouse, but it buttoned low, so she'd have to wear a little demi bra.  Did
she dare?  She took a shower and dried in front of the mirror.

   She'd been working out since Charlie died.  It was a way to fill her
time; at first, it had been a way to not-miss Charlie, working obsessively
at weights and machines.  Now- well, now she saw the results in the mirror.
She was in better shape than she had been five years ago.  Everything was
tight and smooth.  Her breasts were average, but full and prominent.  Her
nipples were bulbous, a little too large, but that wasn't exactly a flaw.
They were sensitive, and way too eager to stand up and say hi to the men,
But that wasn't always a flaw either.  Men liked it, sometimes.  Charlie
had loved her breasts.

   Charlie.  Sandra sat down and sighed.  Charlie.  She still missed him.
The idea of meeting some young guy pretty much just to get laid made her
feel guilty.  But Charlie would have approved.  Heck, Charlie would have
insisted.  She slipped a finger between her labia and smeared the dampness
between her breasts, then licked her finger, smiling at her reflection. 
"Okay, girl," she told the mirror a bit anxiously, "Let's try to get laid."

   She tried on a pair of tiny red thong panties, then slipped them off
altogether, going bare.  If she got lucky, they'd be in the way.  If she
didn't, well, she'd still feel a little wicked with her biscuit out there
for the world to see.  She took a cab downtown.  If she got lucky, she
didn't want to have to retrieve her car the next day.  ***

   Sandra should have known.  Betsy's young man was her son Mark.  She
cringed.  She should have known.

   She had sat at a booth in the back, and she saw him come in and look
around.  She felt stupid.  She should have known.  But that didn't make a
lot of sense, because there was no way she could have known

   Then she realized Betsy was sleeping with her son; had they arranged
this so Mark could get into his mother's panties?  The thought sent a
completely lascivious shiver through her.  He looked so good across the
room, broad shouldered, confident, handsome.  Then Mark noticed her, and
the surprise that registered on his face reassured her.  He wasn't trying
to seduce his own mother.  Sandra plucked at her blouse, trying to close
the vee, to hide the fact her nipples were standing up to say hello.  But
the blouse buttoned low and the little bra pushed her breasts together and
didn't conceal her erect nipples at all.  There was nothing to be done for
it.

   "Hi, I'm Mark," he said, coming to the table, "You must be Sandra."

   Sandra rolled her eyes.  "Mark, sit down.  I feel silly enough as it
is."

   He sat, giving her a crooked smile.  "You don't look silly.  You look
beautiful."

   "Please, don't.  If I'd known.  You said you had a date, didn't you? 
This is way to embarrassing.  I think I should go home."

   "Already?  Of course, if you want,but I'd be happy to buy you dinner
first.  My place or yours?"

   Sandra blushed down to her throat.  "Mark, I'm your mother.  Don't even.
Don't suggest anything.  Don't even imply."

   Mark smiled, considering something, watching her mouth.  "You know, my
dad always said I should never try to seduce a woman from a position of
strength.  He thought it was dishonorable to hit on the young, the stupid,
the timid.  You're mature, confident, and really beautiful.  I think that
makes you fair game."

   "Your mother," Sandra insisted, frowning.  "I'm your mother."

   He took her hand and gently licked her palm.  Sandra couldn't suppress
the shiver that went through her.  "That's just adds relish, doesn't it?"

   "Stop it, right now.  I mean it, Mark." She tried to look angry, but it
wasn't convincing.  The shock was sincere, though.

   "Have dinner with me, then.  Will you do that?"

   "Making love with me would be incest.  It's not going to happen."

   "But dinner would be okay?"

   Sandra glared.  "Fine.  Dinner.  That's all."

   She'd wanted to spend time with Mark, and here he was, but they sat for
several minutes barely talking.  She didn't know what to say.  Mark
ventured casual converastion, but she still felt awkward.  Maybe she should
go home.

   Sandra got a second scotch, a double, and as the whiskey warmed her, she
felt less uncomfortable, or at least pleasantly fuzzy.  Mark was relaxed
and confident.  It might not have troubled her so much except that he was
handsome.  He was a heartbreaker, really, and she couldn't deny a secret
attraction.  But that didn't mean she'd allow anything to happen.

   Betsy had set them up; she wondered what he'd done with her.  A lot,
apparently.  Did Betsy know she'd arranged a date between Sandra and her
handsome son?  Maybe not.  Probably not.  Who would know?

   "Do you think Betsy set us up?" she asked.

   Mark considered that, watching Sandra's eyes.  "No.  I don't.  I never
even knew where she works.  I met her through Henry."

   "So what did Betsy say about me?" Sandra asked cautiously.

   "She said you get daydreamy in the afternoon, and your nipples swell
like hen's eggs when you thing about sex."

   "She did not!" Sandra blushed hotly, mostly because it was true, her
nipples were big and enthusiastic, and even industrial bras couldn't quite
conceal them when she got horny.

   "She did.  She wants to make love to you, did you know that?"

   "Mark, stop this, you're embarrassing me."

   "Sorry, Sandra.  That's Betsy, though.  She is a little wild."

   "I really don't know her that well.  Why do you call me Sandra?"

   "You're my date."

   "I'm your mother.  Don't for an instant think you're going to- to seduce
me."

   Mark smiled and cocked his head, studying her.  "Except for that little
detail, I'd sure try.  You're the prettiest woman here."

   "Mark, stop that.  I mean it."

   Mark smiled crookedly.  "Bigger than hen's eggs, I'd say.  Almost as big
at tennis balls."

   Sandra's face flamed red.  "I should slap you.  I'm leaving." She didn't
quite get up, but she did glare, and finally with conviction.

   "Sorry, sorry.  That was pretty vulgar.  Sorry.  Stay.  I like being
around you, Sandra, and whether you like it or not, you're a beautiful
woman.  Let's spend the evening together."

   "You're not going to seduce me."

   "I think I'm going to try."

   "Mark, I'm your mother!  You're my son!"

   Mark nodded.  "Yes.  So what?"

   "What do you mean, so what!"

   "I mean we're both adults, able to make our own choices.  Take a chance.
You don't have to be afraid of me."

   "I'm not afraid of you."

   "Then take a chance."

   "You are not seducing me.  I mean it."

   Mark chuckled.  "That's what all you beautiful women say."

   Sandra glared at her son.  "How did you ever get so sure of yourself?"

   "I guess you raised me right.  Dinner, dancing?  Friendly flirting?"

   She couldn't help smiling.  It crept out through her indignation. 
"Dinner, all right?  That's all."

   "And flirting."

   "No."

   "Dinner and dancing.  And flirting."

   "No.  Dinner.  Maybe dancing."

   "Okay.  Good."

   "And don't look down my dress."

   "Don't admire what you're displaying?"

   "Stop it, Mark.  You're being obnoxious."

   He was and he knew it too; he looked a bit contrite, a little
embarrassed.  More than his wicked proposal, his implacable confidence,
that embarrassment reassured her and thrilled her at the same time.  He was
a charmer, that was certain, just like his dad.

   "I've started classes at university," Mark said.  "Night classes."

   "Besides your job?  You must be awfully busy."

   Mark laughed.  "Yeah, I had to skip a class for our date.  It's hectic.
I really don't have a life."

   "You don't have a date, either.  You are not going to get anywhere with
me."

   "Maybe not.  Let's see what happens."

   "Treat me the way you'd treat your mother.  Okay?"

   He gave her a wicked cockeyed smile, and Sandra couldn't help appreciate
the irony.  Perhaps this *was* the way he'd like to treat his mother.

   Mark ordered iced tea, and moved the conversation to safer ground.  They
talked pleasantly, and Mark dropped the flirting, at least for the moment

   He worked far too much, and he was going to school; he was majoring in
philosophy, of all things, and he was enthusiastic about it.  He was bright
and funny and it was hard to believe he'd graduated from high school two
years before.  He was charming, and Sandra felt herself responding more to
his friendly, unassuming manner than his blunt flirting earlier.  He'd be a
catch.  His dad certainly had been.  Had Mark been teasing her earlier? 
She knew she could be wicked herself, enough so to almost wished he hadn't
been teasing.  Almost.

   Making love with her handsome son: it was a delicious notion.  Sandra
was perfectly capable of being wicked herself.  She knew her nipples were
reaching out to him, but she couldn't do anything about that, and he didn't
appear to notice.  At least his eyes didn't linger on her cleavage.

   Mark had been talking about a new product his company was developing,
when Sandra realized Betsy knowing them both had other implications.  "Oh,
god, Mark, I just realized.  Betsy is going to want to know how my date
went."

   Mark smiled easily.  "We're back to that, aren't we?  Well, we can tell
her the truth, unless we make love later."

   Sandra flushed.  "She'll ask regardless.  You are not getting into my
pants.  I'm your mother."

   "You brought it up.  What difference does Betsy make, unless we do the
dirty?"

   Sandra frowned, but she wasn't able to put much heat in it, because he
was right.  "She's going to want to know about us.  She- you've made love
with her.  She's going to know that I know.  It'll be awkward."

   Mark shrugged.  "You're right.  She'll ask me about you, too.  I'm going
to tell her you're the best piece of- the most passionate woman I've ever
met."

   "And I'll tell her you're a vulgar beast.  What you're talking about is
incest."

   "Okay.  There are two options.  First, we stood each other up.  Second,
we tell her we're an item and no others need apply.  Incest is best, yes?"

   "No.  Mark, please.  You're a handsome guy.  You can get lots of girls.
You don't need to hit on me."

   "You're a beautiful woman, Sandra.  I want you."

   "And stop calling me Sandra.  Call me Mother.  Or Mom."

   "Mom for short?  When I've fantasized about you, I always thought of you
as imaginative and adventurous.  Willing to try something new.  Let's do
something bad, something we'll have to conceal from Betsy."

   Sandra frowned and shook her head.  He was getting to her; she did want
hm.  Or at least she'd looked at him some times and wondered, considered,
daydreamed.  But this was the real thing, and she wasn't going to let
anything happen.  She wasn't.  "You'll tell her you showed up late and I
wasn't there.  I'll tell her I didn't go.  Okay?"

   Mark laughed.  "Okay."

   ""Promise?"

   "I promise.  I won't admit to anything we do tonight.  Our secret."

   "You are incorrigible." Sandra frowned, but her eyes sparkled.

   "And you are a babe.  If you want, we can got to my place and I'll fix
dinner."

   "No," Sandra laughed, then she shook her head.  "No.  I mean it."

   "A restaurant, then.  That's fine.  I'm a lousy cook and we can go to my
place later."

   "No, Mark.  I mean it."

   "Your place then?"

   "You are not going to seduce me.  I'm a grown woman, and that's all. 
Please stop."

   There's a little Italian restaurant a couple blocks away.  Shall we go?"

   "No.  Yes," Sandra said, feeling somehow defiant.  "Dinner is okay. 
Nothing more.  You're not going to seduce me."

   Mark rose, bowed and pulled her chair back.  The little shit.

   It was only dusk when they left the bar, and most of the downtown bustle
had quieted.  Mark took off his sports jacket and offered it to his mother.

   "It's warm out, thanks.  I'm okay."

   "I thought you might want to cover yourself.  It's a little distracting
for me."

   Sandra grinned and shook her head.  "I suppose I am a little bit on
display.  I think I can live with a little ogling.  I don't look that bad
for an old girl."

   "You're not old; you're very sexy.  I wasn't worried about your
equanamity.  If you don't cover up, I can't be responsible for what I might
do."

   Sandra drew her shoulders back.  There had been a compliment in there,
and she warmed h herself on it.  "Deal with it," she said.  "I can protect
myself from you."

   Mark laughed and kissed her cheek, and they walked in silence for a
moment.

   "Sandra?" Mark asked as they turned a corner.  "There is one thing you
should know about me."

   "What's that?"

   "I don't seduce women.  I flirt, and if that's welcome, then I ask."

   "I don't suppose a lot of women say no," she said, eyeing him frankly.
She liked that approach; direct and honest.

   "Some do.  Will you make love with me?"

   Sandra laughed.  "No."

   His arm went around her waist easily, and she permitted it.  Permitted?
She liked it; the strength and presence of him, a soft cinnamom smell about
him, something herbal and unpretentious.  "You do have one advantage over
all the other pretty girls."

   "And that is?"

   "I already love the hell out of you."

   "You are so bad.  I'm not going to flirt with you."

   "Think of it as an adventure.  Or a challenge.  Are you strong enough to
protect your virtue from my charms?  Do you dare flirt?"

   "I'm.  Your.  Mother."

   "If you decline, then we can have a perfectly good time with our clothes
on.  I really do love you, you know."

   "And I love you, Mark.  But that's hitting below the belt."

   Mark grinned at her, and she couldn't help laughing.  "I should suck you
block off.  Knock.  I meant knock.  You are so infuriating."

   Mark was gracious enough not to tease her about that gaffe, though his
eyes lit.  "Relax," he said, "this is going to be an intriguing evening."

   His hand on her waist, the presence and smell of him.  She suppressed a
shiver.  Her nipples already liked the idea, and she had gone out pretty
much to get laid.  She had no intention of doing any thing with her own
son, but like he said, getting to the end of the evening chaste was going
to be intriguing.  "And dancing, too.  You're taking me dancing."

   "Dancing, of course."

   The restaurant was small and intimate.  After they ordered, Sandra
asked, "Did Betsy really say she wanted to make love to me?"

   Mark shrugged.  "Yeah.  I think she wanted me to mention it to you to
see if you liked the idea.  She's adventurous, but not very bold."

   "Did you set this up?  Did you and Betsy arrange things so- so you could
get me here?"

   "No.  Scout's honor."

   Sandra gave him a rueful smile.  "Scout's honor, my foot.  Betsy is a
married woman and you're playing with her.  How honorable is that?"

   "It's not what you think.  I'd rather not talk about them, Sandra."

   "Them?"

   Mark shrugged, a bit uncomfortable.  "I expect Henry wants to make love
to you too."

   "Did you make love to Henry?  Mark?" She had a palpebral image of Mark
with another man.  The abrupt rush of pleasure made her knees weak.

   "You know better than to ask.  I will say that Betsy didn't cheat on
him, though.  I hope that doesn't shock you."

   Sandra dropped her eyes.

   That was just like Charlie too.  The two of them, Sandra and Charlie,
had been so careful, so discreet.  Sometimes Charlie had introduced her to
girls, but mostly he brought other men to her.  Bill had been the first, a
handsome black kid from the mail room at work.  Charlie had arranged it
all, seducing both of them, his own wife and bi-curious Bill.  Bill had
been gentle and delicious; Sandra had made love with him once since Charlie
had died.  Though Bill had been as tender and imaginative as always, it had
become clear to Sandra that Bill had preferred Charlie to her.  The warmth
was there; the passion wasn't.

   For a moment, she could imagine Bill and Mark making love, or the two of
them inside her.  It made her flush and shiver.  Mark's eyes dropped to her
breasts, noting the way her nipples had come to life.  Sandra shook the
lewd thoughts out of her head and excused herself.  She went to the ladies
room.

   It was clunsy, but she'd done it before, in business meeting and
interviews where she didn't want to draw attention to her enthusiatic
nipples.  She unfastened her clothing and carefully taped two bandages over
each nipple.  It didn't tame then entirely, but it made it less obvious. 
She dried her soppy labia and straightened her clothes.

   I am not making love to my son, she told her reflection.  I won't flirt.
I won't encourage.  I won't.  I won't.  I won't.

   She didn't encourge him as they ate; Mark didn't press her, but told her
about his philosophy class.  The whole time she was acutely aware of his
masculinity, his good looks, and the bandages chafing her nipples.  She was
absurdly conscious of how much she wanted him, her son, to make love to
her. Mark, damn him, was a perfect gentleman.  The more she tried not to
see him as a lover, the more fervently she made love to him in her
imagination.  Betsy had said he was hung; his dad had been.  And she knew
he had a foreskin.  She'd insisted when he was born; you're not cutting
him.

   Mark was saying something about Nietsche, and she was staring into his
eyes and tasting his cock.  She was doing a better job of seducing herself
than Mark had.

   Finally, though, the meal was finished and Mark's attention focused on
her.  "Dancing?"

   "Dancing." Sandra smiled.  "Slow dancing, though.  Anything else and
I'll bounce out of my bra."

   He didn't leer or make any lewd comments.  That surprised her.  "Slow
dancing.  I know this little jazz club."

   "Can we walk there too?"

   "It's a bit far.  Let's take a cab."

   "We could both drive." Then Sandra remembered she'd taken a cab
downtown.

   "I'm not letting you out of my sight," Mark grinned.  He hailed a cab,
and they sat.  He didn't press himself on her, but the cabbie obviously
regarded them as a couple.  Sandra eased against him, pressing her thigh to
his.

   He gave her a questioning look, and she gave him a shrug.  He put his
arm around her shoulder, squeezed and kissed the corner of her jaw.  It all
might have been innocent, or almost so, but she knew he felt the hard
little shiver that went through her.

   Outside the club, Mark pulled her gently to him and brushed the hair off
her temple and kissed her.  It was a light kiss, his lips against hers,
warm and soft.  She gave him a doubtful look, but she didn't protest nor
offer him more.  He touched her throat, and kissed her again, lightly.  For
a moment, her lips pressed his.

   "Mark," she asked, pulling away, "What would your dad think about this,
you trying to seduce your own mother?"

   Mark, bless him, looked surprised and a bit guilty; or at least, not so
so cocky.  He let her go, and they went in.  Had she finally discouraged
him?  Sandra swallowed, her own feelings undecided.  She wasn't going to
seduce him, though.  It wasn't in her, for one thing; Charlie had always
been the instigator.  And for another, Mark was still her son.  Handsome,
hung, charming; far, far too desireable, but still her son.

   They got drinks at a table in back and Sandra noticed a sultry redhead
eyeing Mark and glancing at Sandra enviously.  Eat your heart out, girl,
Sandra thought.  He's mine.  And she had to allow that Mark was right: it
was a delicious notion to be out with her own son, contemplating mortal
sin. It added a whole new dimension to the yearning.

   With few words, Mark led her to the little circle of a dance floor.  He
was graceful, a very good dancer, really, and he didn't press himself into
her.  He led easily and let her find her own comfort with him.  She moved a
bit closer, bringing her cheek to his.  There was that smell of cinnamom
again, perhaps aftershave, and something more, distinctly masculine.

   "You know," she murmured, "I don't think you and I have danced together
since you were twelve and asked me to teach you the foxtrot."

   "We haven't," Mark said thickly in her ear, "We've never danced like
this." His voice was low and tight and Sandra couldn't suppress a shiver.
When the song ended- far too soon, Sandra thought- Mark distractedly began
to lead her back to their table.

   Sandra resisted, tugging on his hand.  "Again.  They're starting a new
song.  Let's."

   Mark looked at her darkly; was it desire?  Uncertainty?  What?  He
almost looked angry.

   She slipped into his arms and they danced.  She liked moving with him,
and pressed closer.  "Mother-" Mark began.

   "Mother?  Not Sandra?" She smiled up at him, teasing, but his eyes were
grave, and the surge of desire made her knees buckly for a moment.

   "Mother," he said.  "I loved Dad.  I loved him and respected him and if
he was still around, I'd never be telling you this."

   "What?  Telling me what?" Sandra's own voice had dropped, a fresh
yearning growing in her.

   "You.  I just.  It's funny, all the times I imagined saying it, and here
it is and I can't find the words.  The nerve, I guess."

   Sandra pulled back, watching his dark eyes, then kissed him, once and
lightly on the mouth.  "Say it, then.  Just say it."

   "You know how little boys always want to marry their mother?  I did. 
God, I wanted to marry you before I knew what it was.  But kids grow out of
that.  I never did.  I grew up and found out what it meant, and I wanted to
marry you more than ever.  Betsy, other women- they're all older women, and
they're all like you in one way or another.  If Dad was still with you, I'd
never be saying this stuff.  You'd never know.  But here we are, and I'm
trying to- Hell, I don't know how to say it.  I want you.  I always have.
This isn't just some impules or a weird opportunity.  This is what I feel
and how it happened doesn't matter.  I want you, Mother.  I want you so
much I can taste your skin."

   Sandra shivered and raised her face to his.  When he kissed her, he held
nothing back.  He was bold and intimate and sensual and Sandra kissed her
son back with as much passion as he gave her.

   "What would Dad think?" Mark said, feeling perhaps a bit bolder for the
kiss.  "I think he would think it was funny."

   Sandra frowned.  "Funny?"

   "Not making-fun-of funny.  Ironic funny.  I think he'd approve of us. 
Under the circumstances, I think he'd approve."

   Sandra shook her head and then rested it on Mark's capable shoulder. 
She might have argued the point, but it was true.  Charlie would have
laughed, then approved.  Even Mark didn't know their secret side, the
lovers they'd shared.

   "I loved Dad, you know that.  He was such a good man.  But I don't think
you and I being together would offend him."

   Sandra swallowed a lump in her throat.  Crazy, adventurous Charlie. 
Mark read her face when she lifted her head and gave her a sympathetic
squeeze.

   He gave a little gasp when she kissed him, and another when she slipped
her tongue between his lips.  After a moment, though, the kiss was again
deep and greedy.

   Sandra broke away with a throaty laugh.  "We can kiss, okay?  That's as
far as it goes.  That's bad enough.  "

   Mark swallowed, his eyes on her bright.  "Sandra- Mother, there's
nothing bad going on here.  There's nothing bad about what we're going to
do."

   She kissed him again, and it was slower this time, quiet and molten, a
kiss that left her trembling, her heart pounding, her nipples chafing at
their bandages.  "We should leave, I think.  I want to go home."

   Mark nodded, his eyes still dark, but without the pensive uncertainty
about him she'd seen when they came in.  "All right.  Let's leave."

   Mark had driven to the bar where they met, so they took a cab back, and
the two of them kissed like teenager's in the back.  A couple times Marks
hand strayed too far north or south.  Sandra stopped him with a giggle each
time.

   At the bar parking lot, Sandra leaned against the fender for a moment.
It wasn't terribly late.  The day's heat still radiated from the parking
lot asphalt.  Mark came up to her.  "Will you come home with me?"

   Sandra drew in a deep breath and shook her head.  "No."

   Mark dropped his eyes and then looked up sharply.  "Mother-"

   "No, Mark.  No.  You're my son.  It's been a wonderful evening, a- a
delicious fantasy.  But it stops now.  It has to, don't you see?  It's
wrong."

   "No.  If I was twelve and you seduced me, that would be wrong.  This is
different.  There's no evil here.  It's just you and me, deciding.  I want
you, Mom.  I want to make love to the beautiful sexy woman who is my
mother, you."

   "I want you too, Mark," she whispered.  "Now take me home."

   "Home?"

   "My place.  My home.  You know what I mean."

   Mark pulled her against him and kissed her hungrily, aggressively. 
Sandra savored it, responded with her own measure of passion, and then,
panting softly, pushed him away.  Mark hesitated, then shrugged, opening
her door.  Sandra sat, throwing her head back, breathing deeply.  He'd
bruised her lips, just a little, and that somehow only enhanced the sensual
haze she was in.  They had driven for several minutes before Sandra raised
her head, alarmed.

   "Where are you going?  This isn't the way home.  Mark?"

   "I'm taking you to my place."

   Sandra caught her breath.  "I don't want to go there."

   "When you called this afternoon, you said you did."

   "That was different.  You know it was."

   Tom pulled the car over and turned to her.  "Mom, I can take you home if
you really want.  But tonight changes everything, don't you realize that?
Tonight, tomorrow, a week from now.  The next time I see you, I'm still
going to try to win your heart.  There's no reason not to."

   "You have my heart.  You want to stick your cock in me." Sandra glared
at him, shocked at her own vulgarity.  Then the question emerged that she'd
avoided all evening, an uncertainty: "I'm not a young woman.  What if you
don't- what if I'm not as attractive as you think?" Her voice grew smaller
as she said that; she wished she hadn't.  She looked away from him, vaguely
humiliated by the implications.

   Mark hesitated, perhaps uncertain himself.  "You trim your pubic hair
into a little vee.  Mom, when you take a shower, when you wash between your
legs, you like to caress your breasts, your nipples.  You sometime even
have an orgasm."

   Sandra glanced at him, shocked, then looked away.

   "There's a hole in the wall mirror.  I found it when I was twelve.  I
know you, I know your body and I want you.  I know that's all pretty tacky,
but I was just a kid.  You're so beautiful."

   Sandra caught her breath, enduring a surge of desire she couldn't deny.
When she bathed she recalled the men and women she and Charlie shared, the
fierce and elegant pleasures.  She did fondle herself; her nipples were so
exquisitely sensitive.  Her private eroticism was gentler than with a
lover, more leisurely, and though Mark's voyeurism might have turned her on
had she known, now she resented the intrusion.

   "You shouldn't have, Mark.  And you shouldn't be taking me to your place
now."

   "I shouldn't have," Mark agreed.  He pulled the car away from the curb.
"I'm sorry."

   "Where are we going?" Sandra asked tightly.

   "To my place.  You called before our date and asked, didn't you?"

   "When you were little, you never would mind me," Sandra said petulantly.

   "When I was little, you were never particularly domineering."

   Touche, Sandra thought.  That was so much like Charlie, gently moving
things in the direction he wanted, never quite demanding but never veering
off course.  She was trembling subtly.  She moved a bit closer to the door,
away from her son.  It was a short drive, and neither of them spoke again.

   He lived in a big brownstone, on the second floor.  She went up with
him, his strong hand subtly possessive in the small of her back.  It was a
big apartment that smelled of cleaner.  It was almost empty; a sofa and TV
in the living room, a bed and dresser.  There was a big pile of boxes in
the living room.

   "Mark, you've been here a year.  You've hardly moved in," she said,
laughing nervously.

   "I've been pretty busy.  Look around if you want.  There's wine in the
refrigerator.  I have to use the bathroom."

   Mark disappeared.  Sandra went to a window and looked out at the dark
summer night.  She turned on a table lamp and then saw herself in the
window's reflection.  She saw an attractive woman.  No.  She was more than
that.  She was beautiful.  She didn't look as nervous nor as anxious as she
felt.  She looked like the kind of woman a man would want to bed.  She
still had it.  She swallowed, drew her shoulders back, and smiled at the
reflection.  The woman smiled back, her eyes dark with longing.

   What would Charlie do if it was his place, and he'd just brought a
pretty girl home?  She knew of course; she had been that girl, sixteen
years old, to be exact, and Charlie had been nineteen, Mark's age.  Charlie
had scampered off to the bathroom to put on a condom.  Bless the man who
takes a little responsibility for his sperm.

   Sandra licked her lips, beginning to tremble.  She went to the bathroom
door and tapped.  "Mark?"

   "Yeah?"

   "You don't need a condom."

   She pushed the door open.  He had his jeans around his ankles, and she
almost laughed, but for the length and girth of the cock curving up from
dark curls, and Mark's hapless efforts to get a condom over all that.

   She did laugh then, slipping to her knees, and despite the yearning the
big thing inspired in her.  Wait until he discovers her bandaged nipples.
   THE END

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